Atlantic Summer

On things that settle only when they're ready

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Atlantic Summer

A cool Atlantic summer whispers
in fern curls and unruly cloud swirls;
wind flirting with silk skirt, 
pinned by a book, unopened,
as my berry-stained mouth drinks its words.

Swallows dart overhead,
forked tails cutting
the air scented with vervain and sweet mint,
and dust — settling on boreens after rain,
like seasons settle on my soulprint.

— 17 June 2026

Text + Soul © Lana E. Taylor
Steal my breath, not my words.

ᚂᚐᚅᚐ ᚈᚐᚔᚂᚑᚏ

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The poem that took a while to arrive, just like the Atlantic summer does.

It’s been sitting in my drafts since June 1st.
First, a line. Then two.
Then almost the entire stanza. Rewritten five times.
Then the full stanza plus one line of the second — this last configuration sat in my drafts for a week. And none of it rushed to settle.

If I told you I don’t miss writing full time — a poem, two, or even three a day — I would be a liar.

I miss it.

I miss how good it felt to be productive, creative. It felt like being on top of the world — not in the proud, vain sense, no. More like, in the sense of abundance. On those days life felt abundant.

But I don’t miss the lows. The pressure to perform. When taking a day off, even unintentionally, felt like a failure. And a writer’s block, which was a frequent guest over the past two years, felt even worse.

Some days I wake up, itching to decide that today is the day I return to daily writing and posting. And the next moment I pull myself back by the hand: no, not today.
When the day comes, it won’t be a decision I made — it will be a practice that already happened.

Until then, I’m letting the words breathe the Atlantic wind and settle like dust on the bóithrín¹, only when it’s ready.

Sending love and light,

Lana

of Salt & Silence

^{All of my poems and essays are available for free on of Salt & Silence today.
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¹ Bóithrín (also boreen) is the Irish word for the small country lane or road, literally meaning ‘little road’.